The morning sun filtered weakly through the canopy of trees at the edge of the outpost as Daerion stirred awake. His back ached from the rough cot, and the unfamiliar sound of soldiers shouting orders and sparring filled the air. Dressing quickly, he stepped outside the tent into the bustling camp. Despite his uneasy situation, his stomach growled insistently, guiding him toward the savoury smells wafting from the field kitchen.
The line was already forming when he arrived – a mix of soldiers cd in heavy pte armour and lighter mail, some chatting and others simply staring ahead. He fell into pce behind a grizzled soldier with a thick beard and scarred hands, gncing around to take in his surroundings. That’s when he noticed them.
On the other side of a wooden fence dividing the camp, a group of figures moved with an eerie fluidity. Unlike the soldiers in the queue, these people wore muted leather and dark cloth, their movements deliberate and predatory.
“Excuse me,” Daerion said, tapping the shoulder of the soldier ahead of him. “Who are they?” He gestured discreetly toward the shadowed figures beyond the fence.
The soldier gnced over his shoulder, his expression darkening. “Them? Those are the Shadowborn.”
“Shadowborn?” Daerion echoed, raising a brow.
“Assassins,” the soldier muttered, lowering his voice. “Kyrell’s elite killers. They’re the ones who attacked Erindel.”
“Why are they over there?” Daerion asked.
“Because they’re not like us. Regur soldiers fight wars; those bastards enjoy it. Killing, that is. They creep everyone out, even the officers. We don’t mix with them unless we have to.”
Daerion gnced at the Shadowborn again. One of them, a wiry man with a shaved head, caught his gaze and held it for a moment before fshing a chilling grin. Daerion quickly looked away, muttering, “Charming.”
The line moved forward, and the soldier offered a grim chuckle. “If you’re smart, you’ll keep your distance. They’re useful, sure, but more than one of us has caught one of those freaks staring like they’re sizing up how to kill you.”
When Daerion reached the front, the cook dled a scoop of soggy porridge into his wooden bowl without so much as a gnce. Thanking him awkwardly, Daerion carried his breakfast over to an empty barrel near the edge of the yard and perched on it, the worn wood creaking beneath him.
Daerion scooped a spoonful of the soggy porridge into his mouth, grimacing slightly at its bnd, mush texture. He chewed absently, his mind drifting. How had it come to this? A bard – a damn bard – sitting in a military outpost surrounded by assassins and soldiers, waiting to meet the most feared man in the nd.
He shook his head, staring down at the bowl in his hands. This wasn’t what he had pnned for his life. He had studied at Erindel University, for god’s sake. He had his Master’s in Musical Composition and Performance – or, as he liked to call it when drunk, Master of Fanciful String-Plucking and Pretentious Poetry. Back then, the world had been full of promise: bustling lecture halls, nights spent performing at taverns to pay tuition, and dreams of fame and fortune.
His thoughts wandered to his cssmates, particurly one. A girl with golden curls and a ugh like wind chimes. Lenira. Gods, Lenira. She had been a muse to half the student body and a torment to the rest. Her voice had been as sweet as her curves, and her smile – when directed at him – had made him forget every clever line he had prepared. Too bad she had moved to the northern provinces a year after graduation.
A wistful grin spread across his face as he reminisced. He remembered one te-night recital, the two of them sitting on a piano bench far too small for comfort, her chest brushing against his arm as she leaned in to point at the sheet music. “You’re holding the tempo to tightly, Daerion,” she teased, her lips dangerously close to his ear. He hadn’t cared about the music that night. No, his focus had been entirely on her… perky charms.
He let out a heavy sigh, momentarily escaping the dreary present for the warmth of that memory. If only he had the courage back then to–
“Bard,” a gruff voice interrupted, startling him so much he nearly dropped his bowl.
Daerion looked up to find a soldier standing over him, a bemused smirk on his face. “Kyrell is ready for you.”
Daerion blinked, trying to shake off the lingering daydream. His cheeks flushed as he realized where his thoughts had been. Hastily, he set the bowl aside and stood, brushing crumbs off his tunic. “R-right, of course,” he stammered.
As the soldier gestured for him to follow, Daerion forced his legs to move, his heart pounding. He tried to summon courage by clinging to the pleasant memory of Lenira’s curves and golden hair, but it was a fleeting comfort.
Daerion took a deep breath as he stepped into the command tent. The air inside was heavy, not with smoke or dampness, but with tension. In the centre of the tent stood Kyrell, his back to the entrance, bent over a rge wooden desk that was covered in maps and scrolls. The light of an oil ntern cast shadows across his youthful features, making him look both unassuming and unnervingly focused. His gloved hand traced a path on the map before him, his eyes sharp and calcuting.
As Daerion entered, Kyrell looked up, his piercing gaze locking onto the bard with unsettling precision. He straightened and spoke, his tone casual but commanding. “Did you rest well, Daerion?”
He hesitated only for a moment before answering truthfully, deciding that if he was going to py along with this strange situation, he would do so on his terms. “The cot was as hard as a stone, and the breakfast wasn’t fit for a donkey.”
Kyrell’s lips twitched, and he let out a soft chuckle. “Well, this is a war camp, not an inn.” He gestured toward the desk and the map that sprawled across it. “But come, take a look. You’re just in time. I’m pnning my next move to conquer Erindel.”
Daerion cautiously approached the desk, gncing at the map. It was marked with troop positions, supply routes, and siege points. Kyrell’s slender fingers rested lightly on one section of the map, near the walls of Erindel.
Kyrell continued, his voice calm but with an undercurrent of intensity. “I find the idea of marching on the city inefficient. As you likely know, the defender always holds the advantage in such cases. And we are not a vast army. The Shadowborn were effective during their st mission. I’m considering deploying them again.” He turned his head slightly, his eyes catching Daerion’s. “What are your thoughts, Daerion?”
The bard blinked, his mouth slightly open. Why in the nine hells is he asking me for advice? His mind raced, trying to figure out if this was some twisted game or test. Still, despite his confusion and rising anxiety, he couldn’t help but respond the only way he knew how – with honesty and a touch of his theatrical fir.
Daerion spread his hands dramatically, his voice smooth but tinged with disbelief. “My lord, from your soldiers, I have heard that you are a walking apocalypse. Why not simply walk into Erindel yourself? March right up to the king and throw him over the city wall?”
For a moment, silence filled the tent. Kyrell’s expression didn’t shift. The amusement that had danced in his eyes earlier was gone, repced by something darker, more deliberate. He didn’t chuckle this time.
The weight of that silence pressed down on Daerion’s chest, making him regret his boldness. Kyrell’s gaze bore into him, unreadable, yet brimming with an intensity that made Daerion’s pulse quicken.
And then, Kyrell stepped closer, the air between them growing heavier with each passing second.
Daerion stood frozen as the young ruler leaned in, close enough for him to feel Kyrell’s breath against his ear. For a moment, Daerion’s attention was caught by the crack in Kyrell’s cheek, now visible in stark detail. It wasn’t a scar nor the sign of an injury. The edges of his skin seemed to curl slightly outward, and beneath it was a darkness – a bckness that seemed alive, as though it pulsed faintly with something unnatural.
Kyrell’s voice cam in a low, menacing whisper, each word deliberate and heavy. “Because gods direct… not intervene. Like a conductor directs, and the musicians py the music.”
A shiver ran down Daerion’s spine, every instinct screaming for him to retreat, yet his legs refused to move. The weight of Kyrell’s presence seemed to pin him in pce.
And then, without another word, Kyrell pulled back, his expression eerily calm, as if he had said something as mundane as the weather. He turned and walked to the rge table, his stride casual but confident. Reaching for a decanter of wine, he poured himself a goblet and sat down, leaning back into the chair with an air of complete authority.
Kyrell gnced up at Daerion and gestured toward the seat across from him. “Sit,” he said, his tone now inviting, almost pleasant. He reached for another goblet, filling it with the same wine before sliding it toward the empty chair.
Daerion hesitated for a moment, his mind still in a whirl. But as Kyrell’s gaze lingered on him, the bard knew there was no refusal here – not without consequences. Swallowing hard, he stepped forward and slowly lowered himself into the seat, his eyes flicking nervously between the wine and the unsettling man before him.
Kyrell leaned forward, his dark eyes locked on Daerion, and began speaking in a measured tone. “I appreciate that you speak your mind, Daerion. It’s a rare quality – one I value.” He swirled the wine in his goblet before taking a sip, then continued.
“I have an offer for you.” He pced his goblet down, the sound of the metal base against the wooden table ringing in the air. “I want you to ride to Erindel. You will carry my banner and negotiate with King Edric.”
Daerion blinked, unsure if he had heard correctly. Negotiate?
“You clearly have a way with words,” Kyrell said, leaning back in his chair. “Use them. Convince him to surrender. If he does, he will remain in power, but as the city administrator of Erindel und my rule. And I Give you my word: no more souls will be taken in Erindel.”
Kyrell’s voice turned colder as he continued. “But if he refuses…” he let the words hang in the air for a moment before finishing. “The streets will turn into rivers of blood. Tell him about the Shadowborn. Tell him about me.”
Daerion felt his pulse quicken as Kyrell leaned in slightly. “Or,” he added, “you can stay here, pying your songs for my men. It is your choice, Daerion. But let me be clear: if you choose to stay, I will not send anyone else to negotiate. There will only be war.”
Silence filled the tent, broken only by the faint crackle of the candles. Daerion sat frozen, his thoughts spinning. This was not a simple choice. He knew the weight of Kyrell’s words was no bluff. If the king refused, the city would be doomed. But to accept this task meant walking straight into danger, carrying the banner of the man who had sent assassins into the city.
Daerion reached for the goblet of wine, his hand trembling slightly, and took a long sip. The rich liquid did little to calm his nerves. He wrestled with his thoughts – was he truly morally obligated to try to save the city? Could he even live with himself if he didn’t?
The memory of the charred market district, the screams, and the falling bodies came rushing back. His chest tightened. He let out a slow breath and set the goblet down, his decision made.
Looking Kyrell in the eye, Daerion spoke with as much steadiness as he could muster. “Yes, my lord. I will ride with your banner and do everything in my power to convince the king to surrender.”
Kyrell’s gaze remained fixed on Daerion as he added, “If you succeed, you will accelerate my campaign. And for that, I will reward you generously. Your loyalty and skill will not go unnoticed.”
He straightened and gestured toward the tent’s entrance. “Now, you should get your horse and be on your way. I have deployed an escort to ensure your safety. They’re already waiting for you at the stables. You have one week, Daerion. By then, I expect a report – success or failure.”
Daerion stood, bowing deeply, his voice steady despite the storm in his mind. “Understood, my lord.”
With that, he turned and exited the tent, a soldier falling into step beside him. They walked in silence through the bustling camp, the soldier leading him toward the stables. As they approached, Daerion spotted a group of five men standing at attention, their armour gleaming in the pale sunlight. Each man was heavily armed, their weapons resting within easy reach.
The soldier beside him gestured toward the group. “There’s your escort,” he said simply, before stepping away.
Daerion hesitated for a moment, then approached the men. “Good morning,” he said, his voice wavering slightly but accompanied by an awkward smile. The men responded with curt nods, their expressions serious.
Behind the escort, Daerion spotted his horse, already saddled and ready. He muttered to himself about the saddle looking more intimidating that ever as he clumsily climbed onto the horse. He barely managed to steady himself before addressing the soldiers. “I’m ready,” he said, trying to sound confident.
The leader of the escort, a tall man with a scar running across his chin, gave a sharp nod. “Follow me,” he said, his voice firm.
The group began to move, single file, through the camp. Soldiers stopped to watch as Daerion and his escort made their way toward the gate. He could feel their eyes on him, their murmurs trailing in their wake.
Once they passed through the gate and onto the road, the formation shifted. One soldier took the lead, with Daerion directly behind him. Fnking Daerion on either side were two more soldiers, their hands resting on their weapons. The remaining two men took up the rear, their watchful eyes scanning the surrounding woods.
The sound of hooves on the dirt road filled the air as they began their journey.
The lead soldier carried a tall fgpole, the banner of Kyrell fluttering in the breeze above him. As the group cleared the dense woods and emerged onto the main road, he slowed his horse and turned to Daerion. “You’ll carry the fg from here,” he said, handing the pole back. “It’s part of your role. There’s a base for it near your right foot – secure it there.”
Daerion hesitated briefly, fumbling with the heavy pole before managing to pce it as instructed. The fg stood upright, its bck fme emblem stark and intimidating against the blue sky.
They continued riding in formation, the soldiers’ eyes scanning the road and woods with vigince. The rhythmic ctter of hooves on the packed dirt was interrupted when two figures suddenly stepped onto the road about fifty meters ahead.
“Highwaymen!” the lead soldier barked, raising his sword. “As practiced, boys!”
The two soldiers fnking Daerion immediately surged forward, drawing their bdes. The highwaymen barely had time to react before the soldiers bore down on them with terrifying speed. The first soldier swung his sword in a wide arc, cutting the first man down, while the second soldier drove his bde into the chest of the other. Both highwaymen crumpled to the ground in moments, lifeless.
Daerion’s heart pounded in his chest as he watched the brutal efficiency of the soldiers. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted movement in the brush to the side of the road. A group of additional highwaymen, likely lying in wait to ambush them, began to emerge.
“More of them!” Daerion shouted in arm, but the soldiers paid no heed. They didn’t slow their pace, their horses breaking into a full sprint. Daerion gripped the reins tightly, the fg swaying precariously as the escort thundered past the would-be ambushers.
The highwaymen gave chase for a brief moment, but the speed of the soldiers’ mounts left them far behind. The ambush dissolved into a chaotic retreat as the robbers scrambled back into the woods.
The group pressed on without stopping, the tension slowly easing as they put more distance between themselves and the danger. By the time dusk began to settle over the nd, the dense woods gave way to the edges of a clearing.
The fading sunlight illuminated the road ahead as they finally reached the exit of the forest. Beyond the treeline, open fields stretched toward the horizon, dotted with the faint outlines of farmhouses in the distance. Daerion exhaled slowly, but the tension in his chest refused to dissipate entirely. In the distance he could make out the city of Erindel, rising high against the setting sun.
As they rode past the farmhouses, the weary gazes of farmers returning from the fields followed them. Suspicious and tense, the residents lingered just long enough to catch sight of the bck banner Daerion carried before retreating into their homes. The presence of Kyrell’s emblem cast a long shadow, and the group’s silent advance spoke volumes.
When the city walls came closer, the lead soldier slowed his horse and turned to Daerion. “This is where we part ways,” he said firmly. “We’ll wait for you at the edge of the forest, but don’t forget – you have one week. Don’t test our patience.”
Daerion nodded, his throat dry, and nudged his horse forward, the banner swaying ominously above him. Alone now, he approached the city gate, where the guards stationed above the walls noticed him immediately.
“Rider approaching!” one of them shouted down.
As Daerion came closer, a squad of guards quickly assembled and stepped forward with their spears raised. They moved to surround him, blocking his path.
“Who are you, carrying that fg?” the sergeant barked, his voice sharp with suspicion. “What do you want!?”
Daerion took a deep breath, sitting taller in the saddle. He raised his hand dramatically, letting his voice carry with a bard’s fir. “I was captured by Kyrell! I have been sent to negotiate on Kyrell’s behalf. Guide me to King Edric!”
The sergeant narrowed his eyes, his grip tightening on his spear. “Captured by Kyrell, and now you’re here? That’s convenient.” He turned and motioned for one of his men to fetch the supervisor.
Moments ter, the supervisor, a middle-aged man with a stern face and an air of authority, approached. He studied Daerion carefully, his gaze lingering on the bck banner mounted beside him. After a tense pause, he gestured to the sergeant.
“Take him to the pace. Have one of your men ride ahead to notify the king.”
“Yes, sir!” the sergeant replied, saluting. He turned to his squad. “You heard him. Form up and escort this… negotiator.”
One guard mounted a horse and galloped off toward the pace to deliver the message, while the others surrounded Daerion, their weapons lowered but their expressions still wary.
The group began their slow march through the city streets. Despite the te hour, their procession did not go unnoticed. Curtains were pulled aside, and faces appeared in the windows of the buildings they passed. Murmurs spread like wildfire as the sight of Kyrell’s banner sparked arm and curiosity.
Some braver residents stepped out into the street, following at a cautious distance. The sound of whispers and shuffling feet trailed behind them, growing louder with each block. Daerion kept his eyes forward, his heart pounding in his chest as the pace gates loomed ever closer.
Finally, they reached the grand iron gates of the pace, fnked by armoured guards bearing the kings insignia. The gates creaked open slowly, revealing the illuminated courtyard beyond. Daerion dismounted his horse, handing the reins to one of the guards.
As Daerion passed through the pace gate, a new squad of guards stepped forward to take over his escort. These men wore heavier armour, polished steel that gleamed under the torchlight. Without a word, they surrounded him and led him deeper into the pace.
The grand hallways were lined with banners bearing the king’s crest, the scent of burning oil from the sconces filled the air. Servants and courtiers watched from the edges of the corridors.
At st, they reached the massive doors of the throne room. Two guards stepped forward and pushed them open, revealing the grand chamber within.
Daerion stepped inside and was immediately met with the piercing gaze of King Edric. The ruler of Erindel was nearing fifty, but his presence was anything but frail. Broad-shouldered and imposing, he sat upon his throne with the air of a seasoned warrior. His short beard was neatly kept, his brown hair, streaked with the first hints of silver, framed a face hardened by war and duty.
To his left sat the queen, a woman of striking beauty, even as the years graced her. Her wavy blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, her blue eyes carried a sharpness that suggested she missed nothing.
Beside her stood the princess, barely twenty but already stunning. Her features were delicate yet regal, her darker blonde hair swept back in elegant braids. Her gaze lingered on Daerion, unreadable, though with a flicker of suspicion – or perhaps curiosity.
To the king’s right, cd in a suit of full pte armour, stood the prince. His brown hair was cut short, his posture rigid, his expression carved from stone. A warrior through and through, he looked every bit the heir to a throne build on strength. His gloved hand rested on the pommel of his sword, as if prepared for trouble at a moment’s notice.
The room was silent, the weight of their stares pressing down on Daerion as the doors shut behind him.
Daerion fell on one knee. “My king, I have been sent by Kyrell to negotiate, but before I do, please let me tell my story.”
The king, responding with a stern tone says, “Go on, tell me why a mass murderer sends you to talk to me.”
Daerion took a steadying breath, his knee pressed against the cold marble floor. The king’s gaze bore into him. “I was on my way to flee the city, to Mihr,” Daerion began, his voice firm but imploring. “I wanted no part in this war. But on the road, I was captured by Kyrell’s soldiers – taken to one of their outposts, where I saw his men, his army, the ones responsible for the sughter in our streets.” He swallowed, forcing himself to maintain composure. “And then… I saw him.”
The queen tensed slightly, though he remained silent. The prince’s grip tightened on his sword.
“My king, he is terrible,” Daerion continued. “Not terrible in the way of mortal men – cruel lords, war-hardened tyrants. No. he is something else. Something unnatural.”
He hesitated, then spoke his next words carefully. “He sent me here to convince you to surrender. He offers you the position of city administrator, to rule Erindel in his name. If you accept, the bloodshed stops. No more families will be torn apart. But if you refuse…” Daerion paused, his hands clenching into fists.
“If you refuse, the city will drown in blood,” he said grimly. “I have heard his men speak of him, of what he can do. He does not need an army to take Erindel. He is the army. He will walk through these gates, alone, and when he does, the air will turn to poison in your lungs, the walls will bcken and crumble under his presence. He will not need to breach the city – he will make it tear itself apart. The lucky ones will die quickly. The rest will lose their minds, left as empty husks, their souls twisted into his service.”
He looked up at the king, his expression earnest, desperate. “I do not come here as his servant, my king. I come here as a man who has seen the abyss and returned to warn you. You may think you can fight him, but no swords, no walls, no gods can stop him. You have one chance to spare our people from the fate that awaits them… please, my king. I beg you – surrender.”
The throne room remained silent for a long moment. The king’s expression was unreadable, but his fingers tapped once against the armrest of his throne. Finally, he exhaled, slow and measured.
“I will need time to think about this proposal,” he said. His voice was steady, commanding, yet not unkind. “This is not a decision to be made lightly.”
Daerion’s shoulders sagged slightly. He had expected an immediate refusal, an oath of defiance. At least this was something. “I understand, my king,” he said, then hesitated before adding, “but I should tell you – I have only a week to return to Kyrell with your answer. If I do not, he will assume the worst.”
The king nodded solemnly. “Then I will give you my answer before your time runs out.” He turned to the guards stationed at the chamber doors. “Escort our guest to the east wing. He may stay in the pace for the time being. Ensure that he is comfortable – but not without watch.”
A pair of guards stepped forward, their armour cnking as they moved to fnk Daerion. He rose to his feet, bowing his head in gratitude before following them out of the throne room. The walk through the pace halls was silent, save for the steady rhythm of boots on polished stone. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows on the walls, making the corridors feel endless.
Finally, they arrived at a guest chamber – a fine room, certainly, though Daerion noticed how quickly the guards stepped inside before him, checking every corner as if he might somehow pose a threat. When they were satisfied, one gestured him inside.
“You’ll stay here,” the guard said gruffly. “There will be men posted outside your door at all times.”
Daerion nodded absently as the door shut behind him, leaving him alone in the quiet.
He sighed, rubbing his temples before sitting on the edge of the grand bed. “Well,” he muttered to himself, “I suppose that’s that.”
The bard let out a long breath as he pulled off his boots and shrugged out of his tunic, his body aching from the long ride and the day’s events. He slipped beneath the soft sheets, but despite his exhaustion, sleep did not come easily. His mind raced – turning over the king’s words, the wary looks from the guards, and the grim future that loomed over Erindel.
What would he do if the king refused? Would he ride back to Kyrell, knowing what that would mean? Would he run?
Eventually, his thoughts blurred into one another, and his body surrendered to rest.
At first, his dreams were pleasant. He stood on the stage of a lively tavern, his lute in hand, the warm glow of nterns reflecting off the tankards of a joyous crowd. Laughter, cpping, cheering. His fingers danced over the strings, weaving a melody that filled the room with life.
Then – darkness.
The tavern was gone. The crowd, the lights, the music – erased in an instant. Daerion stood alone in an endless void. A heavy silence pressed against him. Then, breaking though the stillness, came a sound – a violin, pying softly.
The melody was slow and haunting, drifting through the abyss. Daerion turned his head, trying to locate the source, but the music surrounded him from all directions. He took a hesitant step forward, then another.
The violin quickened.
His heartbeat matched its rhythm as he continued forward. Faster. The notes climbed, tumbling over each other in a frantic, discordant wail. His breath caught in his throat.
The violin let out a piercing shriek.
Daerion gasped awake, his chest heaving, drenched in a cold sweat. He sat up sharply, his pulse hammering against his ribs, his breath ragged.
Across the dimly lit room, seated at the small tea table, was Kyrell.
The young conqueror sat comfortably, one leg crossed over the other, idly spinning a dagger into the wood of the table like a drill. The bde whirred, sinking deeper into the surface with each twist. His expression was unreadable, but the amusement in his eyes was unmistakeable.
“Good evening, Daerion,” Kyrell said softly, the dagger still turning beneath his fingertips.
Daerion just stared, his mind catching up to what was happening. Then, despite the lingering terror from his dream, he forced a smirk onto his face.
“If your battle pns are as dreadful as the violin screech you shoved into my head, then Erindel will surely fall into ruin,” he quipped, rubbing his temples as if trying to shake the sound loose. “Truly, my lord, I’ve heard dying cats produce more pleasing music.”
Kyrell paused his dagger-spinning and raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his face.
Daerion threw off the bnket and swung his legs over the side of bed, standing up with as much dignity as a man in nothing but underclothes could muster. Spotting his trousers draped over a chair, he grabbed them and started pulling them on.
“I made a promise to my te father,” he said, hopping on one leg as he struggled to get them up, “that I wouldn’t die without pants on.” He paused, then smirked at Kyrell. “He always said, ‘Son, if they’re gonna mount your head on a pike, at least make sure your other spear isn’t on dispy.’”
Kyrell let out a short ugh, shaking his head in clear amusement.
“Sit” he said, gesturing to the chair in front of him.
Daerion hesitated for the briefest moment before stepping forward and lowering himself into the seat, as if he were just settling in for a casual drink rather than sitting across from a man who haunted his nightmares. He reached for the goblet of wine on the table, sniffed it, then took a slow sip, hiding the tension tightening his chest.
“Daerion, you find me in your room at night, dagger drawn, and your first instinct is to make a joke.” He tilted his head. “You are an interesting man.”
Daerion gave a lopsided grin, resting an elbow on the table. “Oh, my lord, I’m not interesting. I’m just a simple bard who made a series of very poor decisions.” He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I was born in Erindel. Studied at the university – majored in music, minored in getting thrown out of respectable establishments. I spent my life singing, drinking, and, well…” He smirked, forcing himself to look rexed. “Let’s just say I have an impressive resume when it comes to knowing the best pces to run when a husband comes home earlier than expected.”
Kyrell raised an eyebrow. “Charming.”
“Oh, I try,” Daerion said lightly, taking another sip of wine to steady himself. “I’ve pyed for kings and cutthroats alike, slept in castles and gutters, sometimes in the same night. And I have been forcibly ejected from more inns than I care to count. One time quite literally – naked, might I add. That was an experience.” He gave a theatrical wince. “Particurly since the innkeeper’s daughter had five brothers and their mother was an ex-pit fighter. And she swung a chair like an executioner swings an axe.”
Kyrell gave a quiet chuckle, the sound smooth but unreadable. “And yet here you are. A court bard turned war envoy.”
Daerion shrugged, tapping a finger on the goblet’s rim. “Life’s funny that way, isn’t it? One day, you’re singing balds for drunks, the next, you’re negotiating the fate of a city.” He exhaled. “Starting to think I should’ve gone into accounting like my mother wanted.”
Kyrell leaned back in his chair, spinning the dagger zily between his fingers. His gaze lingered on Daerion, thoughtful, amused. Then, with the same smooth, measured tone he always spoke in, he said, “You know, Daerion, I think I could use someone like you.”
Daerion raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Pnning to start a traveling theatre troupe? Maybe a comedy act? I’d need to workshop some material – ‘Kyrell, Butcher of Erindel’ doesn’t exactly get the crowds ughing.”
Kyrell chuckled. “No, not quite. But you do amuse me.” He pointed the dagger at Daerion in a casual, almost pyful manner. “I have assassins, generals, and spies. But what I don’t have… is someone who can make me ugh.” He smirked. “You could be my jester, Daerion. My personal bard. You’d Travel with me, dine in my halls, be given fine clothes and gold beyond your dreams.” He leaned in slightly. “All you’d have to do is entertain me.”
Daerion blinked, letting the words settle. He tapped a finger on the table, thinking. It was an enticing offer – wealth, protection, luxury. But the thought of being leashed, of living under Kyrell’s watchful gaze every day, sent a shiver down his spine. He let out a slow breath and gave a lopsided smile.
“As tempting as that sounds, my lord, I think I’d rather stay a bard. Roaming, drinking, seeing the world. Call me sentimental, but I like the freedom. Even if it does sometimes mean sleeping in ditches.”
Kyrell exhaled though his nose, something between a sigh and a ugh. He sheathed his dagger and leaned back in his chair, regarding Daerion with that same unreadable amusement. “I understand.” He poured himself more wine, then lifted the goblet slightly. “But I have no doubt I’ll see you again.” He smirked. “When I conquer the continent, I am sure I will stumble over you again, when that time comes, I will reintroduce the offer.”
Daerion raised his goblet in return, mirroring the smirk, though his fingers gripped the cup a little tighter than before. “I’ll look forward to it,” he said, even though he very much wouldn’t.
Kyrell stood, adjusting his coat with a casual elegance. “You don’t need to return to me when you have the king’s answer. Just tell my men at the edge of the forest and go your way. You will be let through.”
Daerion nodded, forcing a smile. “Very generous of you, my lord.”
Kyrell took a step toward the darkest corner of the room, where the candlelight barely reached. “Think nothing of it,” he murmured. “Until we meet again, Daerion.”
